


Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by MsScratch1313



Series: vampire!AU fics [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Vampires, Winter, ambreigns - Freeform, baby...it's cold outside, the other fic is dark but this time it's soft as hell, vampire!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 02:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsScratch1313/pseuds/MsScratch1313
Summary: It's wintertime and Dean is cold. Roman wants to warm him up.(Roman doesn't know that he's cold all the time, regardless. Death will do that to you.)Set afterSnap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck





	Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Author's Note:**

> guess who has raynaud's disease and is projecting! it's me!!  
> enjoy some soft boys while I work on final projects under 23 blankets!!

Wintertime was rough.

Even back in the day, it was rough. Sure, it wasn’t Alaska, but the temperatures dropped in Ohio all the same. Snow and slush clogging the storm drains, freezing solid on the sidewalks, mixed with sand and salt and whatever scum was on the streets before the ice came.

Sure, it could have been worse, but when you’re shivering and shaking, trying to kick through the snow in ratty sneakers and threadbare clothes, it doesn’t seem like it could get much worse. Feels like the cold has sunk right into your bones. Injected directly into your veins. Settled in so deep it’s become a part of you.

For Dean, it’s a part that never left.

“You’re freezing!” Roman exclaims, clamping his hand down over Dean’s wrist before he can turn away. Dean flinches. He’d just been handing Roman the remote and had _not_ meant to brush hands as much as they did.

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, nodding his head towards the window, where flakes can be seen dancing down under the hazy parking lot lights. “S’cold out.”

“It’s warm in here though, I made sure the heat is cranked,” Rome explains. He had, of course, checked the thermostat. Being from Florida Roman had the least tolerance for the cold, both physically and mentally. Traveling anywhere meant seeing Roman in several layers, missing the beach like nothing else in the world.

“I’m fine,” Dean counters, Roman resisting when he tries to free his wrist. “Just shaking off the cold still.” It’s so much harder to fake a normal body temp in the winter.

“You sure?” Roman asks, pulling Dean closer in some strange bastardization of an Irish Whip, which ends with no rebound or kick to the head. Just Roman lying the back of his huge hand on Dean’s forehead.

Dean isn’t really sure what’s going on, so he lets Roman do what he wants, even when the hand disappears and after a gentle push to the back of his skull, the hand is replaced by Roman’s lips.

“You’re freezing cold,” Roman reasserts, running a hand through Dean’s hair soothingly.

“Just like my personality,” Dean jokes. It’s the line he always says when someone asks about his temp. Roman just scowls at him. _Damn it._

“You could be sick uce, if you’re cold and not feeling it. Come on,” he urges, tugging Dean towards the nice, generic hotel bedspread. “You gotta warm up.”

Dean bitches and moans accordingly, but easily submits to being crushed to Roman’s side for the night.

Roman puts whatever he can find on the TV, and curls a heavily tattooed arm around Dean’s shoulders.

The contact is borderline _scalding._ If Dean were anymore dead, it might be hell to sit through. Instead, it’s a rush of warmth where there was none before. It burns in the absolute best way.

Though he starts out parallel, it doesn’t last long, and after a while Dean has slowly crept closer until he’s halfway laying on Roman, having turned away from the TV entirely.

Roman’s mainly focused on the TV, attempting to guess answers to Wheel of Fortune or whatever they were watching occasionally, but a hand is still tracing abstract patterns into Dean’s upper back all the while.

Dean traces back, letting his hands skim over Roman’s chest. At first Roman had shifted uncomfortably, goosebumps rising where Dean had trailed his frigid palms. Now, at least, it appears tolerable, his hands leeching Roman’s heat, which he uses to make warm all the places he’s touched before.

It goes like this for a while, Dean exploring skin, tracing over what parts of the tattoo are visible, careful with his too sharp nails. His other senses urge him in a different direction, one of a steady heartbeat and that delicious scent and veins so close _he taste them already,_ but his touch and sight are giving him the sensations he wants most right now. _Roman. Just Roman._

Dean thinks Roman’s asleep when his hand comes to stop over his heart. He feels it beating for a few seconds, palm flat, before curling his fingers in a semblance of a clawed hand. He need only dig in, carve through the flesh like butter, and it’s his. _Before you could even feel it Romeo._

A hand suddenly slots over his scarred one, pressing it down to lie flat again, fingers intertwined over that most precious organ.

“It’s yours,” Roman whispers. Dean dares a glance up, and quickly has to look away from the intensity in Roman’s eyes.

“Don’t—don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Roman states, bringing Dean’s hand up to run his lips across the knuckles. “Even when holding you is like holding an iceberg.”

“Bad circulation,” Dean says. _No circulation_ is what he really means.

“Sure,” Roman laughs, pulling the covers up and around them.

“Don’t mock me, I’ll put my bare feet on you, then you’ll really freeze,” Dean threatens, kicking his socks off in preparation.

“You wouldn’t,” Roman challenges, tossing the remote on the nightstand. “You love m—AH! WHAT THE HELL!”

“I warned you! Now you suffer!” Dean shouts dramatically, kicking out.

“Stop! No! I yield, I yield!” Roman laughs, attempting to move away but tangling them both up in the sheets.

“Alright, only ‘cause you tapped,” Dean mocks. He starts a chant of _you tapped out_ that makes Roman smack him with a pillow. Dean responds by selling it as if it were a chair shot, going limp on the mattress.

“Get over here and get warm, idiot,” Roman giggles, dragging Dean’s ragdoll body back into where they were positioned before. “Before your feet fall off.”

“M’kay,” Dean replies, no longer KO’ed, burrowing into the blankets.

Roman reaches over and turns off the TV, leaving the room in darkness. They shift around a bit, finding the best position to curl together, exchanging goodnights all the while.

Dean doesn’t know if he can ever shake the chill of death from his bones, but with Roman, he can certainly pretend for a long while.


End file.
